How am I to know, whether
the moon judges me or not for
the things I have left unfinished?
Looking down as I walk the street,
I search for answers in the
shadows she creates.
The cold air provokes my doubts…
The northern wind whisper in my ear,
- Finish the song that has been
drying upon your lips, and
when you’re done with it, sing it!
Sing it, and
I’ll carry your song to the moon!”
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